


Barrie's Close.

by mrua7



Series: Strange, scary stories and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. [38]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Rebellion, Scotland, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: Napoleon has a strange experience while walking along one of the old alleyways off the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, Scotland.





	

  


Edinburgh, Scotland; it had a mysterious charm to it. There was an interesting mix of the old and the new here, still  Napoleon Solo thought it odd place to house a field office.

The city’s famed Royal Mile didn’t seem at all that charming at first glance. It ran in an almost dead straight line from Edinburgh Castle to the royal residence at Holyroodhouse, and you’d be forgiven for thinking it was nothing but kilt and whisky shops. Yet running from it in every possible direction were these dangerous looking alleyways, it was one such place he was looking for, and where he was to meet his partner.

He wondered if Alexander Waverly had something to do with the selection of the location, given the man's Scottish roots, though the Old Man was raised in London.

Looking off to either side, Napoleon saw any number of steps and those alleyways, with intriguing names like ‘Fleshmarket Close’ and ‘The Real Mary King’s Close,’ yet not the one he searched for.

Having travelled along the mile, Solo realized there were more little alleyways than he first realized. They referred to as a ‘close’ by the Scots. Most sloped steeply down from the Royal Mile creating the impression of a herring-bone pattern formed by the main street and side streets when viewed on a map. Many with steps and long flights of stairs.

He was searching for a specific one though, called Barrie’s Close, and when he found it the agent stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the ominous looking alley.

It was lit by very old looking street lamps and it gave the impression that if one walked down, you’d be transported in time to another century.

Solo took his first step and without warning he slipped. He tried reaching for the handrail but couldn’t grab it in time and he tumbled forward. The American ended up in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, knocked out cold.

When he came to, Napoleon was staring into a very familiar pair of blue eyes.

“Illya? Wow those steps were a doozie.”

“Och laddie, the name’s Iain, not Ill-ee-yuh.”

“Come on tovarisch, no games. Give me a hand up...my head is killing me.” He held out his hand.

Solo was pulled to his feet and that’s when he saw it; Illya was dressed in a billowing white shirt and a...red plaid kilt? He had a green feathered cap on his head with a white ribbon. Instead of a shoulder holster he wore heavy black strap and dangling from it was a Claymore, the Scottish variant of the basket-hilted sword.

“What’s with the getup?”

“I dinnae ken yer manner of speech sir.” Illya said. Strangely he had a very thick Scots accent. ‘What manner of dress is this ye are wearing?”

“Illya come on, enough with the jokes please?”

“My name is Iain. Iain Breck Stewart, brother to Alan who is a loyal Jacobite as am I. Can ye nae see by my tartan that I’m of the royal Stewarts. Loyal to the rightful heir to the throne of England, Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

Napoleon’s head began to spin. The alleyway was suddenly gone and he found himself standing in a field with his partner.

He looked down, thinking his trousers needed dusting off and realized he was wearing a red coat and breeches; a British military uniform to be precise.

“What the hell?” Napoleon also found that hands were tied.

Illya was staring intently at him, holding that sword in his hand now and looking quite menacing.  
  


 

“Say yer prayers soldier,” Illya snarled.”We’re a’ Jock Tamson’s bairns, and ye hae the right to prepare to meet yer maker.”

“Now wait a minute tov...Iain, something is very wrong here. I’m not a King’s soldier. I’m...I’m an American, and I shouldn’t be here.”

“Ah-merican? I dinnae ken what ye are speaking about. Yer bum’s oot the windae.”

Iain raised his sword, and as he prepared to deal the deathblow Napoleon closed his eyes; he had no way to defend himself.

“Illya! Nooooo!” He called out as the sword came down

.

Solo felt hands grabbing him, pulling him to his feet. As he opened his eyes there was no pain except for the pounding headache in the back of his head.

“Napoleon are you all right?”

Solo found himself again staring into a very familiar pair of blue eyes. He reached out, taking hold of Illya’s chin and squeezing it; he turned Kuryakin’s face left, then right.

“Is it really you tovarisch?” He was dressed in his usual black suit and turtleneck.

“Why would it not be me? Napoleon we saw you fall on the security camera; you took a bad spill, and hit your head.”

The Russian held up two fingers in front of the American’s eyes. “How many?”

“Four?” Solo’s eyes rolled back before he again passed out..

When he awoke, he was laying on a cot in the field office. There was an ice pack resting on the top of his head.

“Welcome back my friend,” Illya said. He pulled a wool blanket up over his partner, tucking it around him a little better. “You have to remain here until a doctor arrives to look you over.”

“Wow, Illya. I had some dream or delusion, whatever you want to call it. You were in it, but wearing a kilt and carrying a sword.”

Illya chuckled, “Are you sure you have not been sampling some single malt whisky before you got to Barrie’s Close?”

Napoleon raised it head, his eyes going wide as he saw the blanket covering him was red plaid, just like the one Iain Breck Stewart was wearing in his dream.

"Is something wrong Napoleon?"

"No, not a thing." He knew better than to say anything, otherwise he'd find himself headed for a psych exam  
  


Translations:

We’re a’ Jock Tamson’s bairns. (bairn = child) - meaning 'We are all equal in the eyes of God.'

Yer bum’s oot the windae.- you’re talking nonsense


End file.
